


Lost

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Loneliness, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Sherlock Holmes, True Love, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: After Watson marries, Holmes adjusts to life without him.This is part of a Victorian AU. Each part is told as a separate story; reading the other parts will enhance your understanding of the overall arc of the series.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 10
Kudos: 70





	Lost

Watson used to have nightmares. In our first days together, they were frequent and terrifying, an unfortunate residue of his time in Afghanistan. He would scream himself awake, and then lie sobbing, curled into himself. My cure was to wrap myself around him, trying to ground him. _You’re here, I’m here, we’re fine. _Once he was calmer, we would lie close together, warm and drowsy, talking softly in the darkness. It was more intimate even than other things we did in our bed.

After his marriage, the hardest thing for me to bear was the thought of him awakened by a nightmare, being held by her. _No,_ I thought, _not her_. She could lie with him as his wife, and he would do his duty to her, but she could not have that intimacy with my boy. This belonged to me; his nightmares were mine to take care of.

I do not know if he had any nightmares after his wedding. I hoped his wife would never know about those midnight conversations. I hoped they they slept in separate bedrooms.

We had agreed that the first month of his marriage we would avoid seeing one another. To legitimise what we’d done, to keep the lie of it hidden, we would pretend a degree of indifference for an interval. After those weeks had passed, I would invite him to join me on a case, and he would come to Baker Street. The long term plan was for us to continue our partnership as if nothing had changed but his residence. If we were busy with cases, he might be justified in spending a couple nights a week away from home. I would take cases out of town where possible, and he would accompany me.

I am not prone to nightmares. There is only one that remember one from my childhood. In this dream, I am following my dog into the woods. Anyone who has ever followed a dog into the woods knows the sudden fear that can seize you as the mist curls around your legs, covering any traces of your path. You are lost in a trackless grey world with no sense of direction. But the dog knows where the path is, and it can find the way home, so the object is trusting the dog, following it until it knows it’s time to leave the woods and return to warmth and security.

In my dream, though, I lose my dog. I call for him until I am hoarse, stumbling through the brush, tripping over roots, until it becomes clear to me that I will die in the woods, and my body won’t be found for years, and nobody will ever know what happened to me.

The night after John’s wedding, I had that dream. It had been so many years that I had actually forgotten it. But there I was in the woods, staggering through the mist, listening for the sounds I should follow. I was calling his name. _John, John…_

As an adult, I can see the metaphor in the dream. John is the warm presence that so often guides me. I trust him to bring me home safe. Without him, I am bereft.

I’d fallen asleep in my chair, my violin in my lap. It was the clatter of the bow as it dropped that woke me. I gasped and regained my surroundings, marking the familiar things in the darkened room— the embers of the fire, the gaslight through the windows, the settee, my chair, his chair.

And I was lost.

I hadn’t intended to sleep at all, which was probably foolish. We’d been awake the entire night before, holding on to what we both knew was the last bit of normalcy, of _us, _perhaps forever. This was our plan, that he should marry and move out, but remain close. Neither of us had calculated how long it would take to allay suspicion, but a marriage lasts until death parts those who have vowed to have, hold, honour, and whatever else they have promised before God. Even if marriage between men suddenly became legal (a foolish thought), he was _her_ husband, not mine.

We had made our own vows. _Together. We shall not be parted._

Sitting in my chair in the early hours of the new day, my mind began to track through the woods, taking dark turns. Women often die giving birth; perhaps she would not live long. This was unkind; she had done us a good turn, though she might not realise it yet. She had done a sensible thing for herself, as I had predicted, and I admired her for it. But I could not thank her.

I hoped that she would be good to him, that she would provide a place where he could be comfortable— but never at home. They might have a child, or children, and no doubt these would become the focus of her attention, leaving him free to spend time with me.

Our rooms felt empty, cold. As I roused myself, I had a sudden eerie monition that I’d been sitting in my chair for years, abandoned, and that John had lived an entire lifetime without me. I imagined looking in a mirror, seeing myself aged.

I had always proudly asserted that I had no friends, but this was not true. I had one: _my John_. And I had so thoroughly incorporated him into my consciousness that I no longer knew how to live without him.

_Absence makes the heart grow fonder._ I have heard people say this, and it may be true. A more accurate way to say it might be that we cannot fully understand the value of what has become familiar to us. I loved John and kept him close to me for years, and I believed I fully understood what that love meant, but it was not until that night that I fully grasped how much I needed him. It was as if a part of me had been torn away, and I now lay bleeding.

Thank heaven for Mrs Hudson. Knowing me as she does, and sensing perhaps that I’d fallen into the dumps, she brought an early breakfast up. I heard her feet on the stairs, and by the time she’d flung open the door, I had re-wrapped my dressing gown and stood to help her with the tray.

“It’s freezing in here, Mr Holmes,” she said. “You’ll catch your death. I’ll get the fire started in two ticks.”

She prattled as she worked, telling me the news of the neighbourhood and reminding me that I was to have lunch with my brother today. When she’d finished with the fire, the room began to warm. Laying a hand on my shoulder, she said, “You’ve gotten used to company, sir, and now you’re lonely. I hope you’ll make an effort to get out. And the Doctor will come visiting soon, I know he will.”

Because I had promised John that we would not see one another for a minimum of three weeks, I went to see my brother in his rooms at the Diogenes.

“You’re early,” he said without looking up.

It was then that I remembered we had a lunch appointment, which meant that I had an hour to rant before he decided to order us something.

“How long must a man be married before he can file for a divorce?” I demanded. “And what grounds must he have?”

He looked up from his stack of documents. “Sherlock.”

“She does not love him.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I thought that was the entire point.”

“I hate this.”

He regarded me with sympathetic amusement. “You miss him, of course, but you have not lost his heart.”

“My own heart is broken.”

“All hearts are broken, dear brother. It is part of the human condition. You have become accustomed to him, but your disposition is solitary, Sherlock. John Watson is a sociable man. He chose to do this for you, knowing that you could not do it for him. You will not die of neglect. He will come around soon.”

“How long is this likely to last— this Labouchere nonsense?”

He set his spectacles on the desk, which meant that he had abandoned his paperwork and would give me his full attention. “I can’t say, and do not wish to speculate. We live in dogmatic times, brother, where any man’s opinion might become law, if enough hysteria gathers round it. Men who wish to make a name for themselves love to pose as crusaders for such vague ideas as _decency, morality, virtues, _and to legislate against the vices of others while preserving their own sins.”

“Is it a sin?” I asked.

“I have never thought so. But no one with the power to change the law has asked my opinion.”

“What am I to do?” I moaned. “I cannot bear this.”

“The marriage is but one day old. As even the most ardent couples eventually tire of one another, and theirs is not a marriage of love, it will not be long before you will see more of him. Right now they are sorting out the household, furnishing the house, hiring servants, and determining what their days will look like.”

“I don’t care about the days. I only care about the nights,” I said darkly.

“It will be all right, Sherlock. John loves you. Give it some time.”

Two weeks passed. I tried to busy myself, even going round to Scotland Yard to see if Lestrade had any cases for me.

“Where’s Watson?” he asked.

“He has deserted me for a wife,” I said, trying not to sound too annoyed.

“Really?” Lestrade looked as if I was having him on. “Never thought I’d see that.”

“Why not? He’s been highly sought for ages. I’m only surprised it took so long for him to find the right woman.”

“And who is the woman?”

“Miss Morstan. You may remember her from the case of the Agra treasure.”

He frowns now. “Really?”

“Yes, really. She is a very... intelligent woman.”

He nodded, digesting this. “Well, give him my best, when you see him.”

“I will. Do you have any interesting cases?”

“It’s been dull as a tomb around here,” he replied, grinning. “Finally catching up on all my paperwork.”

“Well, do send around for me if you need my assistance.”

“Right-oh,” he said cheerfully.

When two and a half weeks had passed, I had sunk fully into despair. Since I’d met John, I hadn’t been apart from him for this many days. Now I was beginning to feel as if I had hallucinated him. Everything in the flat reminded me of him. I might have boxed up his things, but then I would feel their absence, which would hurt as much. No, I must keep his possessions around me like a shrine, think of him as a ghost who haunted these rooms. My ghost lover, jealously guarding my heart. These thoughts were morbid; that is how far I had mired myself in misery.

Fortunately, he appeared at the door just as I was contemplating shooting holes in the wall.

He looked well. I didn’t know whether he had a hired a cook or if _she_ had been preparing his meals, but he did not appear to be underfed. Well, at least he wouldn’t starve to death. I might, though.

He was smiling at me with eyes that were sad. “You need to eat more, Sherlock.”

“It’s only been a couple weeks,” I said. “And I haven’t lost any weight. Much weight. You have talked to Mrs Hudson.” My landlady had been clucking every day about how I was turning into skin and bones. “It hasn’t been three weeks. You’re not supposed to be here until Saturday.”

The door was closed behind him, but he did not move. “I miss you,” he said. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“What did you tell _her_?” I asked. “What excuse did you give her for being late home from the surgery, as you surely will be?”

“I don’t need an excuse.” He sighed, looked down guiltily. “I thought I’d put some of my things in cartons, have them picked up. Clothing, books, and so forth.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, I’m living in an empty house. I feel like I’m traveling and didn’t bring enough clothes.”

“Buy new.”

“My books, Sherlock. I’d like to bring some over to the house. I’ve got a little study with a desk and bookshelves, and it feels very empty.”

“No. Your things will stay here.” _Awaiting your return,_ I added silently.

He stepped towards me now. “You’re angry with me.”

“Angry? How can I be angry?” I said this in a tone that left no doubt: I was angry. I didn’t want him ever to feel at home, not anywhere but here, at 221B Baker Street.

“You think I’m leaving you. I’m not. Very well, I’ll leave my things here, if it makes you feel better.” He eyed me cautiously. “I thought we might get some dinner.”

“I’m not dressed. And not hungry.”

He said nothing, but came to me and put his arms around my waist, leaned into my chest. I couldn’t help it; I held onto him like a drowning man. Like a boy lost in the woods who’d just found his dog.

“Oh, my dear man,” he breathed. “My darling, I’m sorry this hurts you so much. Believe me, I am hurting, too. But you, alone here— I didn’t anticipate how hard this would be for you. I’m sorry, love.”

I stroked the blond hair. It was longer now, and his moustache needed a trim. “Does she take care of you?”

He sighed. “She is considerate, and somewhat indulgent. She does not let me run out of the house looking a mess. But her nature is independent, and she does not fuss. She has her own occupations, and does not bother me if I spend the evening in my study, reading.”

“Have you...?”

He understood what I was asking. “Of course.”

“And?”

“Do you want a detailed accounting of the event?”

“Event? Just once?”

He shrugged. “She has not expressed much interest.”

I felt relieved. “Has she said anything about... us?”

“About you? Not a word. I think she wrote you a note, thanking you for the silver champagne bucket. Really, Sherlock. Why do I need a silver champagne bucket? It hardly suits the lifestyle I’m able to afford.”

“Return it then. Get something you want.”

“I’ll let Mary decide,” he said. “I want just one thing from you.”

It was the first time he’d said her name. The stab I felt when I heard it on his lips was quickly replaced with longing, when I realised what he was asking me for.

“I want that, too,” I whispered into his neck.

We retired to the bedroom.

“You're welcome to come by, you know,” he said as he prepared to leave in the morning. “It would not be strange.”

“I might.” I had no intention of doing that. Their cosy and sensible house, the accoutrements of domesticity that would eventually kill my lover’s spirit— these were not things I wanted to see.

And the Morstan was a sharp woman. If she had not already seen through us, observing us together would surely raise her awareness. John trusted her; I did not.

“We’ll have you over for dinner.” He shouldered the bag of clothing he’d packed. The books and other belongings he had thankfully decided to leave behind.

John Watson belonged here, at Baker Street, surrounded by Bohemian clutter, gathering up the detritus of my experiments, filling my cup with tea, laughing at my remarks, and sleeping in our bed. I did not want to think about sitting at table between him and his wife, talking of whatever people talk about when they entertain. Such an evening would suck a bit of my soul away.

“Of course.”

Our life after that evened out, though. _She_ did not seem to mind John spending the night with me a couple days a week, as long as there was money to pay their bills. He kept up his practice, but confessed that it was time-consuming and hard work to acquire patients, and he was not very successful. I suspected that he preferred crime-solving, or simply wanted to spend more time with me. So that his bank balance would not dip too low, I occasionally deposited sums into his account. Clients still sought us out, and whether or not he was able to accompany me on a case, I considered him a full partner in our firm.

I hated the nights alone. The bed was always cold, no matter how many blankets I lay under. The silence was unbearable.

Before I met Watson, I had developed a habit of using cocaine, and sometimes morphine. Three times a day I injected myself with a seven percent solution, and felt a kind of transcendent clarity descend upon me. The morphine I used to dull my natural urges and descend from the agitation which sometimes the cocaine brought.

As a doctor, he objected. _Consider the cost_, he scolded. _The game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you risk your great mind for a passing pleasure?_

I gave it up for him. In truth, once we were lovers, I needed no artificial stimulant for my senses, and my natural urges no longer needed constraint. He was my drug, my euphoria and my peace.

But the nights were long now, and sometimes I was desperate for oblivion. The days dragged, and I craved stimulation. My last remark to him, the morning he left for his wedding, was a something of a threat.

_Well, Watson, you have acquired a wife. For me, there still remains the cocaine bottle._

His face had contorted in sorrow and fear at these words. _Please, no, _he said. _Promise me you won’t. I could not bear it._

I had promised, and though tempted, I did not give in to the craving.

After a couple of months, Watson gave up his failing practice and began doing only locum tenens work, filling in for other doctors, with the result that he was able to spend two or three days and evenings a week with me. Our income was steady, and with the supplemental earnings from the locum work, his household was running without any bumps, he said. _She_ did not complain of his nights out, and being naturally frugal, did not worry him about the bills. I felt we had reached a place of equilibrium, and could look on the future without fear.

We were getting out of a cab at Baker Street, just having returned from a round of interviews on behalf of a client who suspected his business partner was up to something shady. Nothing particularly dangerous, but the kind of case where we complemented one another’s abilities. I could see through the man; Watson knew how to manage him so that he didn’t suspect.

“I’m going to be a father,” he announced.

“Oh.” I had heard men make joking remarks about _ankle-biters_ and _little shavers_, and I supposed this was my cue to say something similar. My brain, unfortunately, had other plans.

I had thought about the possibility of John having children. That was, after all, the fundamental purpose of marriage, to _be fruitful and multiply._ In my mind, it had always been a desirable outcome for their marriage. Watson would be a very good father, I was sure, and infants require a great deal of maternal attention, which would certainly keep _her_ busy running after the _little dickenses. _Men were not expected to have that degree of involvement with their young. As long as a father stuck his head in the nursery every now and then, maybe bounced the tiny tyrants on his knee occasionally, he was doing his job. If they had children, I counted on her paying less and less attention to my Watson, leaving us free to live our lives in relative peace.

Well, not peace. Ours was not a peaceful existence. Our bottom line was maintained with plenty of danger, and it was this reality I now thought about.

This child, this young seedling of the Watson tree, would be an actual person. Girl child or boy, it didn’t matter. It would be small and helpless. It would grow, and learn, and make its way in the world. It would need its father.

And it suddenly struck me how selfish my own desires were. I wanted John because I loved him, but I was an adult, a man who had gotten by without love for a long time before meeting him. I needed him, but not in the same way this child would need him.

Keeping a child fed, clothed, and healthy would demand more income, perhaps requiring John to return to regular practice. He was no longer merely a man with a wife. There might be more children, if this one proved successful. I could see him wanting that. He had once spoken of the dreams he had before going to Afghanistan. _I might marry, have children..._

_“Oh?”_ He was smiling at me. “Is that all you have to say about it?”

“Well, congratulations,” I said.

There would be no room for me in such a life. John would have to gradually distance himself from me, until finally I would be merely the eccentric uncle-figure who visited at Christmas. He would feel guilty, but what else could he do?

He had taken the step that made us safe. It was up to me to take the next step, to remove his guilt.

As the pregnancy progressed, I called on Watson less and less. He still stopped at 221B a couple times a week, but I could see that he was tired.

“How are things?” I wanted to be delicate about it. If he did not wish to discuss _things_, he could simply give a perfunctory answer. If he did wish, it gave him an opening. 

“Fine. Things are fine. She is healthy, and there is no sign of any foetal distress.” He smiled. “Separate bedrooms, her idea. She has trouble at night. Heartburn.”

I nodded. “And the locum work?”

“I stay busy. It’s enough. You haven’t been very busy, though. No cases?”

“Nothing very interesting,” I replied. “I don’t like to bother you over cases that practically solve themselves.”

“You can, you know,” he said. “It’s what I’d prefer, to do things with you. I find I’m rather missing the danger, the chases and the take-downs. Domestic bliss is highly overrated.”

“I’m sure it is,” I replied, trying for a genuine smile. “I’ll let you know when something less pedestrian walks into my sitting room.”

He looked around the room fondly. “Our sitting room.”

I was running down an alley, chasing a suspect, Lestrade following behind, slower. _John should be at my side_, I thought, but I hadn’t asked him. The baby was due in less than a month.

The fog was thick that night, and I could not see the end of the alley. I knew it dead-ended in the back wall of a warehouse, and that the man I was chasing was cornered. Had John been with me, he might have cautioned me to wait, see if our quarry would come out. I might have called out, warning him that I was armed, that he would do better to give himself up. I might have simply waited for Lestrade.

None of those things are what I did. Perhaps the fog put me in mind of my nightmare and I took fright. It was not truly panic I felt, though. I was disoriented, and for a moment thought that John was following me, his gun in his hand. Confident that he was right behind me, I advanced, my own revolver ready.

I didn’t feel the bullet hit me. It was as if a wave were rushing over me, knocking me down and momentarily stunning me. Finding myself flat on the ground, I heard the retreating feet of the man who had shot me. John had once described to me what he’d felt when he was hit by the Jezail bullet that almost took his life. He wasn’t afraid, he said. It was an odd detachment, as if he were standing between the two worlds, waiting to see what would happen next.

I wondered if I was dying.

I vaguely remember Lestrade shouting at me, pressing something into the wound. Apparently it was my arm that had taken the bullet. I did not feel the warm blood flowing out of me, but I heard him cursing. I thought about the major arteries of the arm: the subclavian, the axillary, the brachial. I imagined the din of battle around me, but it was only the pounding in my ears that I heard. Then my arm was being tightly bound, and I was lifted.

I was at Baker Street when I became aware that I’d been moved. Someone had given me morphine, I could tell, and I struggled to make sense of what had happened. Mycroft was at my side, talking to me in a calm voice, and another man, presumably a doctor, was doing things to my arm that were intensely painful.

I began to weep, and Mycroft spoke softly, reassuring me that I would be fine. Understanding me as he does, he knew that the pain was not what was undoing me.

“Watson is coming,” he said. “He was out tending to a patient when the telegram arrived at his house, but he’s on his way now.”

This reassured me enough that I was able to relax, and soon I found myself wandering in a dark woods. _Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura ché la diritta via era smarrita… (“In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself astray in a dark wood where the straight road had been lost…”)_

The mist pressed around me like cotton wool, and I resigned myself to what I had always known would be my fate. No one was looking for me; no one would find me. I was not a man made for love or companionship. I was alone. I would always be alone.

And I wasn’t dying. Light was coming through the windows when the morphine faded, allowing me to leave that dark place. I could feel a warm presence beside me. A hand on my forehead, checking for fever— no, stroking my hair. _John._

“How are you feeling?” He sounded weary, tense.

“You’re here,” I croaked.

He held a glass to my lips and I took a sip. “‘Course I’m here. You were asleep when I arrived last night. I should have been in that alley with you.” He looked into my eyes, and I could see where his weariness came from. “Why, Sherlock?”

I flinched under that gaze. “John, you shouldn’t be risking your life for this. You’ll soon have a child to support.”

“_We_ will have a child to support. Isn’t that what we agreed when we made a commitment to one other? Sherlock, all of this is for you— for us! If you had died last night, it would be no less devastating to my child than if I had died. We are a partnership. I will not let you take all the risks while I play it safe.”

“I didn’t want you to feel guilty. My thought was only to protect you. The work you do is important; your patients need you.”

“Then allow me that same privilege. Let me protect you as well.” He leaned over and kissed me. “Please, love. When I heard you were hurt—“ He choked back a sob. “I was sitting with one of Anstruther’s patients, a lonely old lady. Perfectly healthy, loves to complain. Really, she just needs someone to listen to her. I wasn’t out saving lives, Sherlock. I was humouring a hypochondriac who could have waited.”

I could not speak. Tears were welling up in my eyes, and inside I was trembling.

“Do not be careless with what belongs to me, Sherlock— I mean, yourself. You are mine, and I cannot lose you.”

“Oh, dear boy—” I began, my heart full of love for him.

“Go back to sleep, love,” he said, his smile now reassured. “I will be here when you wake.”

“You will stay? But—”

“Who is the doctor here?” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “I'm not releasing you from my care until I am sure you're fully functional. That may require some tests.” His smile was seductive.

“What kind of tests?”

“Oh, reflexes, blood flow, pulse under exertion— the usual sort of tests. Perhaps I will note any unusual swelling.”

“I assure you, Doctor, that my reflexes are even now quite up to par.” I returned his smile. “And any swelling you may note is perfectly natural.”

He leaned over me, tangling a hand in my hair and kissing me deeply. “Let me be the judge of that.”

He stayed for a week, going home twice to check on his wife. I spent most of that week in bed, but there were no more nightmares. Every time I awoke, he was beside me.

I was soon healed, and we continued as we had, but I no longer kept Watson in the dark. Every time I asked, he went with me.

When summer was ending, the child was born. They named her Rose, for John’s mother, and Mary, which had also been her mother’s name.

I was given the function of Godfather. The job was not difficult. I had only to swear that Rose Mary Watson would be brought up in the Church and learn its tenets. The fact that I did not believe these tenets myself, and rarely went to church, apparently did not matter.

I was required to hold the infant during the baptismal service, which happened a few months later. When the priest poured water over her head, she opened her eyes and looked up at me, as if to say, _Why are you letting them do this to me? _Her lower lip thrust out in a pretty pout, and she wailed. I gave her back to her mother, but not without first assuring her that her father was the best man in the world who would always take care of her, and that I would take care of him so she didn’t have to worry.

Holding her daughter, Mary smiled at me. “I hope you won’t be a stranger, Mr Holmes,” she said in that low, thrilling voice I remembered. It always seemed so unexpected, coming from such a petite, fair woman. “John depends on you.”

“As I depend on him,” I said.

There wasn’t more to say. She understood, and accepted.

I was reading the paper one morning, looking over the Agony columns, when Mycroft stopped by. The weather was cold and damp now, harbinger of a heavy winter, and he had brought his umbrella instead of the cane he normally used. He’d lost quite a bit of weight, I’d noticed, and was not out of breath when he arrived at my door.

Having let him in the front door, Mrs Hudson brought up tea.

“You seem more content, brother,” he said, taking his cup. _No sugar_, I noticed.

I nodded. “Things are going rather well, I think. Watson and I solved the diamond case last week, though he won’t be able to publish the story without changing the names. The brother did it—”

“Of course he did.” Mycroft smiled. “How long did it take you?”

My brother loves to point out that he is quicker than I ever will be at deducing things. I allowed him a small gloat. “Two days. And we’ve got a forgery going now.”

“And your arm? Is the wound fully healed?”

“It aches a bit in this weather, but it does not restrict my movements.”

“And how is Dr Watson? And the family?”

“They are all fine. Rose is sleeping much better now that the colic has passed.”

He set down his cup, almost reached for a biscuit, but drew his hand back. “You might get a dog, you know. For companionship.”

I had already deduced that John was giving me a puppy for Christmas. He was currently debating whether it should be a foxhound or an Airedale. It would be the foxhound. “I think that might happen.”

We studied one another in silence for a moment. “And what is the other bird, Mycroft?”

“Bird?”

“Two birds with one stone. You didn’t come all the way over here just to see how I was doing. What is the other part of your errand?”

“Just a word.” He smoothed his hands over his trousers. “I only want to mention it to you. Simply remember, and observe.”

“What is the importance of this word?”

He paused before speaking. His look was steady, but portended something. “There are forces at work, hidden forces within our government. The people who are behind these reforms are only actors in some drama which has been written by others. I do not know all of them, but, like you, I notice things. I file them away for future reference, should unexpected events arise. I would like you to notice as well. Between the two of us, we may learn what their plan is.”

I could not remember hearing my brother speak so cryptically. He is a repository of information, which makes him invaluable to the government. It might also make him enemies, I realised. “You are worried.”

“No, not really. I have merely noticed some things which require watching— lest they become worrisome.”

“And this word you want to mention?”

“A name: Moriarty.” He gave me a shrewd look. “Professor James Moriarty. As I have said, do nothing. Merely observe. He is a snake, Sherlock. Be careful where you step.”

**Author's Note:**

> It will probably be January before I post in this series again. Please subscribe to the series if you want updates.


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